The man to whom those significant words A were addressed, and whom the baron called Volpetti, appeared to have just arrived after a long journey. Much dust whitened his clothes, his shoes and his abundant dark hair, which last was in a disorderly condition. He seemed somewhat over thirty, of a southern type, having tanned skin and a heavy beard which extended almost to his eyes. His answer was formal:
"Thatshall be accomplished tonight."
"Are you certain?"
"Infallibly so. The fool is in clever hands. I am just from London, bringing two boxes of steel implements, scissors and knives, which have served to corroborate my commercial character. Beyond the Channel I was Albert Serra, a Catalan, making purchases in London to smuggle through Gibraltar. Not the devil himself could have spotted me."
"Come to the point," commanded the superintendent. "You are skillful in disguises. I myself hardly recognize you in that beard and mop of hair."
"I have taken these precautions, Excellency, because the Carbonari and the police are on my scent. They are making shrewd guesses and 'twould be very awkward for me to enter London in handcuffs, on the charge of being party to an assault upon that puzzling personage. One must be on the qui vive. I picked out two hardy fellows and gave them only such information as was required for the performance of their parts. Besides, the plan was as simple as sucking eggs. The personage lives in an obscure quarter and opposite his house is a park which is always deserted after nightfall. A Methodist church stands on one side of this park and a college on another. In the centre is a group of big trees which cast a deep shade; indeed, everything was arranged to suit us. The personage takes an evening stroll after his day's work, for he has been warned that failure to take the air will be bad for his eyes which he uses hard all day, looking at the fine mechanism of the watches and machines which he repairs. How have I found all this out? Therein lies my genius, Excellency. I can answer every question concerning that house. The personage, after wandering through certain streets, and visiting his friends, the Prussian mechanic, Hartzenbaume, returns home regularly at a given hour. He is very punctual in his habits and whoever passes through the square at that time is almost sure to meet him."
The superintendent shook his head. The faint creases upon his brow deepened.
"And if they are captured?"
"If they are captured? but they willnotbe captured. They know just what to do. If they are arrested, 'twill be for assault with intent to rob, something that occurs every day. And even though Albert Serra is named as accomplice, what of that? The English police will look for a Catalan smuggler—not for me. The fellows know only half the story and you may be certain that the net is well laid. Has your Excellency further orders for me?"
"Await me here and arrange a new make-up. I shall return."
The bailiff bowed and, at a signal, raised the iron shutter through which the autocrat passed back to his private office. On reaching it, he felt in his pocket for the letter which he had placed there not long since, and said to the usher:
"Has not her Grace, the Duchess de Rousillon, arrived?"
"She has been waiting some time for your Excellency."
"Ask her to be good enough to enter."
The baron gallantly advanced to place a chair for the lady. She approached boldly, trying to smile, but her pale face and the reddened semi-circles beneath her blue eyes revealed acute suffering. The duchess must have been beautiful in her prime and her style of dressing showed that she had not given up her claim to attractiveness. Her skirt was of taffeta silk ornamented with narrow lace ruffles. She wore an exquisite dulleta of rare green velvet, bordered with white embroidery mingled with gold and chenille, a large silk English bonnet of such shape as to permit the escape on each side of clusters of curls still golden. A parasol like that which had been last graced by the hand of the Duchess de Barri, of white satin embroidered in violets, completed her outfit. From her left wrist hung a reticule of pearls over satin with a jeweled clasp. She made a court bow to Lecazes and seated herself in the proffered chair with somewhat more than her usual aristocratic manner.
"In what can I serve your Grace?"
"If you but knew what has happened," she began in an agonized voice. To his querulous look, she resumed: "You had appointed today for the conference which we were to hold regarding the Montereux mines, which form part of the ducal estate of Rousillon. The possession of this property is disputed by the municipality of Montereux on the pretext of prior occupation, and I desire to place my claim in your hands for enforcement, even though it be a matter that does not concern you officially. But if it were not for this engagement with you, I should have come today to earnestly solicit an audience."
The baron noted her agitation from the trembling of the rich jewels on her bosom.
"Compose yourself," he said almost affectionately, taking in his own one of her gloved hands "Your trouble may not be as serious as you imagine."
"You consider me capable of being afflicted over a trifle!" she exclaimed. "Listen; my son has escaped to England."
"To England!" ejaculated Lecazes, starting in his seat.
"Ah! so you see my distraction is not over a small matter. Yes, to London and slyly, too, for he told me that he was going hunting on Picmort. But as I have eyes, I discovered that the clothes which he had taken were hardly appropriate to the chase and that the guns and bags which were left behind satirically grinned at each other. I then hurried to our bankers and indifferently inquired whether René had ordered money to be sent to him. On being told that a large credit had been placed for him in London, I concluded that my presentiments were well founded."
"When did the Marquis leave?"
"Four days ago. He should reach London tonight."
The baron was not in the habit of showing his feelings, and only a slight contraction of the mouth could be detected as the effect of his chagrin.
"You know well," proceeded the lady, "that the girl is there. When I revealed the truth to him and proved it by the documents which you kindly procured for me—showing her father's criminal record—René seemed overwhelmed with sadness. After some grieving over his ruined hopes, he appeared to be cured of his absurd passion. But now I realize that the chains are not broken."
The superintendent brusquely inquired:
"Why did you not notify me the moment that your son started on his trip?"
"I blundered," she mournfully admitted. "I did not realize that precautions are unavailing when one contends with intrigants of low breed. Why do you not have that monstrous impostor put in prison? He should be deprived of his mischief-making power. I trust to you, Baron, to dispel from his Majesty's mind any notion that I am implicated in this conspiracy. Assure him of my loyalty, of my condemnation of René's perversity. How iniquitous so to exploit a resemblance, a freak of Nature! 'Tis truly an amazing likeness. On seeing the girl I was almost petrified. She has the air, the face, the eyes, the mouth and even the gait of the martyr-queen. Mountebanks of that stripe always attract followers. Adhemar, for one, believes in him to the death. I shall banish him from the mill for his treason! O Baron, rescue René! If my son were to become a partisan of this impostor, I could not endure his Majesty's displeasure. Were I treated coldly at court, I should die of mortification. Reverence for my liege is my chief sentiment. My beloved husband used often to say to me, 'Matilde, let your first care be to please the king!'"
"That is not the question at present," drily rejoined the superintendent. "Your fidelity is evident to me. But what a mistake you made in not keeping me better posted."
"Do you fear, as do I, a clandestine marriage—one of those entanglements—?"
"Like that of his Highness, Duke Ferdinand, with the sentimental Amy Brown?" interposed Lecazes.
"Mon Dieu, no!" protested the duchess. "That was a vicious calumny."
"Well, your Grace, I shall try to nullify your mistakes. Compose yourself and depart. Pardon my abruptness. I require time to formulate plans and to prevent further trouble. Trust to me. The Marquis de Brezé will not rush headlong into marriage with a culprit's daughter. Such acts are not perpetrated in real life, impromptu, as in Cimarosa's operas. We shall find preventives for such an awkward faux pas."
The lady rose, drawing across her eyes a perfumed lace handkerchief.
"You are my protector," she said, clasping the baron's hand. To herself she said, "Trickster! Newly manufactured noble! Renegade Bonapartist!"
As soon as the duchess had departed, Lecazes clenched his fist and shook it vigorously in her direction. Then again placing a finger on the secret spring, he glided through the paneled door and passageway into the room where he had burned the documents. He called, in a low voice, to Volpetti.
Some moments later, the bailiff appeared in immaculate dress of the correct style, blue coat with gilded buttons, nankeen breeches, riding-boots and in his hand a fancy whip with carnelian handle. He wore a white muslin cravat which with his pale face made a pleasing contrast with the dark brown whiskers. His head was fringed with chestnut ringlets, amid which rose, on the left, the romantic tupé, the Chateaubriand coiffure. And Volpetti did strikingly resemble the author of the Genius of Christianity.
"You certainly have an amazing facility in transforming yourself," said the superintendent. "There now remains only a cloak for the road. Take two passports and make use of that which is the more appropriate. Spare no expense and reach London without losing a moment."
"Will your Excellency be so good as to give me definite instructions? Am I sent to spy upon my agents?"
"Your business is to dog the steps of the Marquis de Brezé and to discover his lodging, his acts, his thoughts and even the frequency of his heart-beats. This young gentleman is enamored of Naundorff's daughter and he reaches London this evening. He will doubtless, on arriving, take the road leading to his mistress. He may be Naundorff's ally, yes, he may be his rescuer this very night. We did not count on his presence and, to say the least, it complicates matters. Volpetti, there is no need to give you further instructions."
The bailiff bowed and departed, while the superintendent unfastened his coat, took out the letter which he had withheld from the flames, leisurely unfolded it and again lost himself in its perusal as though he were committing it to memory.
Were the superintendent's office compared with the monarch's sanctum, the former would appear to be more ostentatious, but on deliberately examining the latter, much that was admirable, indicating the cultured tastes of the occupant, would be found. The windows opened toward the royal gardens which spread before the eye, like a rich tapestry, its beds of rare flowers and shrubbery, among which could be seen alabaster statues of Grecian deities glistening in the sunlight. Within, the walls were covered with paintings both modern and antique, and splendid armorial trophies from the East. Among the paintings were a nude in pearly tints by Titian, a Bacchante by Rubens, an Odalisque by Delacroix, and a Jupiter and Ganymede by Prudhon. There were fancy china-pieces of Saxon ware encased in glass, Grecian statuettes, bas reliefs in which consummate skill triumphed over crudity of subject, silver-plate ornately engraved, medallions, coins, pottery and jewels, many of these rarities being the treasures of an antiquarian connoisseur.
Back of the armchair and desk, which were superb specimens of Louis Quinze furniture, stood a book-case richly paneled and containing among its choicest volumes, editions of Plantin and Manuce, bound in morocco and Spanish-American calf. On the right, back of the screen, which concealed it was a costly piano awaiting the touch of fingers that were wont to interpret its enchanting secrets.
Before the desk and at the feet of the armchair was spread—a present from the Countess Cayla—a white bearskin, upon which lay a diminutive dog with black mouth and silken hair, one of those cunning miniatures which today are a fad in France, but at that time were rarely seen.
It was near five o'clock when a side door opened and the king entered, supported, almost carried, by two attendants. The dog leaped for joy and covered the monarch's feet with caresses. Sighing deeply, his Majesty dropped into an easy-chair near a window. He suffered from a life-long malady, in spite of which an active spirit stirred within him. To look upon him made one quickly see the force of Marquis de Semonville's remark: "How could one expect his Majesty to forgive his brother for walking?"
Having settled himself in the easy-chair, his bandaged legs and swollen feet propped with cushions, he took a pinch of snuff from a jeweled case and said: "Summon Baron Lecazes."
Awaiting the execution of his order, the king cast his eyes over the enchanting view from the open window. The western sky was like molten gold and, against this brilliant background the sombre trees took on the look of bronze bas reliefs. The spraying fountains tossed up in dazzling glee myriads of fantastic aquiform flower-petals, charming the eye and cooling the atmosphere. A sweet, voluptuous peace pervaded the apartment, the garden perfume mingling with that of unfolding narcissuses and springtide hyacinths in jardinieres. It was with unfeigned delight that the royal personage sated his esthetic nature amidst these rich and varied offerings to the senses, and on such occasions he was given to saying to himself, as though he might never enjoy its like again:
"'Tis an elysian hour. Let us lose none of its nectar."
Always lurking behind this sentiment was the conviction: "Life is brief, whatever the number of its days. A breathing, a striving, a sighing, and then—who can tell? Eternal mystery."
Giving himself up to the play of his imagination, the king seemed to hear the onrushing and receding of the tides of human destiny through the centuries, now holding high, then sweeping to their fall, the splendors of earth's thrones and dynasties. Was he also to be soon submerged in those merciless tides and dashed about like a straw? O, before sinking into the deeps, how he wished to live and feel the complete man!—to have health and a day—and laugh to scorn all the fears of frail humanity.
"Were I but strong!" he at times exclaimed in rage. "Might I but love, suffer, weave into my life the thread of a romantic adventure. But this despicable body!—this diseased and impotent flesh!—"
His eyes wandered from the garden view to the objects of art around him. He enjoyed in them the fruition of artistic beauty rescued from voracious Time. They seemed to smile to him like the choicest friends. In these and such as these he found more real contentment than in aught else.
"I am very like an Athenian, or a Roman contemporary of Horace," he assured himself complacently. Correct lines and classic symmetry transported him so much that the vision was at times inspired within him of his own person restored to health, with rich and virile blood coursing through his veins.
Suddenly his face grew haggard and his head fell on the back of the chair, a shadow obscuring his Bourbonic countenance, so like that of his decapitated brother, though it lacked the placid benevolence of that unfortunate monarch's face encircled in curls which terminated in a cue. In the reigning Louis's face that benevolent look was replaced by an expression of sordid indifference or of caustic irony.
The king's collapse had been caused by the sight of a man standing in the garden opposite the window, near the statue: "A wrestler preparing for the Combat." The man's keen eye was fixed upon the monarch. He was of a weazened type and might be of any age between eighty and ninety, for there is a limit beyond which the passage of time is not apparent in the human form. His head shone like burnished silver, his bristly eye-brows surmounted prophetic eyes and his knotty hands, upon which his chin was leaning, rested on a rough staff. His garb was that of the provinces—where tradition and superstition held sway and druids still sharpened the ax beneath the trees—loose gaskins, wooden shoes, woolen scarf and embroidered jacket over a white vest. As a whole the attire was picturesque and the passers-by turned to gaze attentively at the old man, an ideal model for a painter wishing to personify the past.
The king, attracted by the strange figure, prolonged his stare, then suddenly turned his eyes upon the pompous usher and the Superintendent of Police, who advanced making a profound salutation.
After taking the seat designated by the monarch, Lecazes inquired solicitously:
"Does your Majesty improve in health?"
"The vulture does not tire of preying upon me. Believe me, Baron, the lives of all men make up equal totals. To reign, having disabled limbs, or to break stone, having nimble ones—'tis a balance. No, I am in error. To break stone, under such conditions, is preferable. After all, the breakers of stone can make love and be merry, while an invalid like me—Poor Zoe! poor Countess! 'Tis true that she and I adore genius and beauty. Who can deprive us of those joys?"
The baron's facial muscles assented.
"What of the English doctor?" he asked.
"Bah! the English doctor? Another instance of the Anglomania enslaving us! Have you ever witnessed inanity so grotesque as this servile imitation? And the claim that 'tis the English who have imparted to the world the ideas of cleanliness and hygiene! The reign of the water, indeed! Have we forgotten the ablutions of the Greeks and Romans, their cult of health, their purifying hot baths? And the fad of eating meat raw bloody! I tell you it was the eating of beefsteak that set my gout rampant. The only commendable thing about the English is that they kicked the Corsican off the throne. But what is the news, Monsieur Superintendent?"
"The news is good, your Majesty. We have succeeded in collecting the rest of the dispersed documents pertaining to the creole. All of these we have burned, in compliance with your Majesty's instructions. And a wise precaution it was, for they contained much that should be suppressed, such as letters from the Russian emperor and from Barras relating to the impostor—noxious papers, all of them."
"And what writing, except good poetry, is not noxious?" disdainfully inquired the king. "A perpetual conflagration should exist for the consuming of all private letters and documents. Continue the destruction. My desire is well known to you, namely, that only purely official documents remain after me. Spare not a page of confidences, intrigues or anything calculated to embroil historians or encourage romanticists. To ashes with the whole! While the verses of the great poets, the Latins especially, exist, what matters it about other writing? Here is a Petrarch in antique vignettes which I secured yesterday. Crude, is it? Why, the devil, Excellency! There was no mock modesty in those days."
Lecazes smiled, remembering Talleyrand's epigram: "The King reads Horace in public and yellow-backs when alone."
"Your Majesty," said he, "ever discourses on the intellectual and the artistic—"
"Ever, ever," rejoined the flattered monarch. "It is this diversion alone that buoys me up in supporting the weight of the crown, for 'tis heavy, so heavy! Lecazes, I do not lie on roses. If 'twere not for madrigals—eh? The prettiest madrigal ever written to my sister-in-law, Marie Antoinette, was from my pen. Do you remember it? 'Twas of the zephyr and love. Not even Voltaire surpassed it. I ought to have devoted my life to the art of verse and not been obliged to desert the Muse in order to treat with those devilish emigrants who return from exile as they left, having learned nothing, forgotten nothing. The importunate creatures wish to obliterate the Red Terror with the White. They would return to '86, and the guillotine, hang, drown, seeking only a fierce revenge. Such imbecility! One may take vengeance on an individual, but never on a nation. Do you follow me, Lecazes? The fools! They would be better royalists than the King himself."
The Superintendent was pleased at this apt epigram, heard then for the first time.
"They must be restrained," he said. "Between them and the Carbonari the throne totters."
The King turned his face with a look half quizzical, half contemptuous.
"Lecazes, you talk inanities. Do you think we are to last long enough for that? Do you believe in a future for us? Better that I repeat with my great-grandfather and Pompadour, 'After us, the deluge.' Had I ambition—You well know how foreign 'tis to my nature—"
Again Lecazes assumed the mellow expression, and again came to his mind words of Talleyrand, uttered many years earlier before Revolutions were dreamed of: "A king loves his crown."
"Were I ambitious," resumed the monarch, "I should now be contented. But ambition is puerile. I was not born for the throne but for art—highest art! Beauty sways my soul. Poetic art rather than the prerogatives of supreme rank should have filled my life. You, who are also an artist, can understand how I am starved in my exalted station, not filled. Happiness is found in the refined pleasures of the imagination rather than in state-craft and pomp. What memory is my reign to perpetuate? I have been despoiled of the nation's conquests. I have acquired the crown by giving up thirty-six strong-holds and ten thousand cannon. Glory has turned her face and fled from me. Is the fault my own?"
The baron failed to reply and the King resumed:
"I do not know—not evenyouknow—how great is my joy in discovering an antique cameo, a rare edition or an Italo-Grecian vase to add to my Iliad collection. But the exercise of power does not permit me to enjoy such pleasures tranquilly. Perhaps some day I shall enjoy reigning, but at the present time I long to seclude myself in the country, surrounded by my art collections and a few witty, erudite friends—above all, writers of verse. Those melodious youths adoring the moon from Our Lady's tower would be most entertaining if they were more deferential to the classics. I should indeed be happy in such a retreat. O how the pastoral life, eclogues and idyls allure me! I was born for the society of pagan philosophers beneath a Grecian sky and mine is a plain case of the error of Destiny. Baron, commiserate me. I am most unfortunate."
"Is Your Majesty greatly tormented by your ailments?" inquired Lecazes with aptly simulated solicitude.
"Greatly so. I suffer the pains of one condemned to torture. How I am racked! As I said before, Baron, to break stone is preferable."
Lowering his voice, he added:
"You know that one of the calumnies floating here and there for my discomfiture is that I am satirical and given to discharging arrows of cynicism, quite indiscriminately, too. They say this because I am an appreciator of Voltaire and his expose of the hypocrites of his day. I a cynic!—an unbeliever! Would that they could know what depths of faith and of tenderness are in my heart! It is not easy to be a pagan. Modern life stultifies the attempt. Behold in me an instance—"
The King suddenly ceased talking and motioned to the aged peasant outside who had not averted his piercing gaze.
"That man—"
"Yes, Your Majesty, what of that man?" answered Lecazes, with a frown. "That beggar? Does Your Majesty wish alms given him?"
"No, Baron. How does it happen that you, from whom nothing is hidden, do not know who that man is and what he wants?"
The superintendent's shoulders shrugged indifferently.
"Your Majesty, Idoknow. That man has been watched from the moment he set foot in Paris. It has been found that he is inoffensive and probably idiotic. He prays much and aloud. In times past he was a partisan of the good cause and he now prophecies strangely concerning Your Majesty. Such visionaries are plentiful during this tumultuous time. Are we to heed them all? He doubtless has some favor to ask."
"No, Baron, your sagacity is not up to the mark in this case. That man is not to be despised. I must see and hear him. Perhaps my fears are groundless, but they are so persistent that only reality can dissipate them. How persevering he is! Daily, almost hourly, he fixes his greenish eyes upon the palace. I see him from whatever window I look. He mesmerizes me. Call it caprice if you will, but I wish you to send for this man. Imustsee him. He has stood there for a fortnight. Perhaps he is a poor unfortunate wishing to have a word with the king."
"Does Your Majesty ask my advice in the matter or am I receiving a command?"
"A command."
"Then I leave Your Majesty, in order to execute the command."
"No, remain. I shall send for him myself. You are to listen to our interview and give me your opinion. If he be really daft, 'twill amuse us. He is sure to be interesting."
"He will no doubt wish to be left alone with Your Majesty."
"Perhaps so. Well, place yourself back of that screen. The dear Countess de Cayla often listens from there to fatuities which greatly amuse her. Do not reveal yourself, unless I call or foul play be attempted."
A few minutes later, the door opened to admit the imposing figure of the octogenarian, Martin. The king graciously motioned him to advance. He approached diffidently, a pale ray from the setting sun shining upon his face and lighting up a flaming mark across his breast. This was the red flannel scapula of the Heart of Jesus stamped with the words: "I shall reign."
"Come forward, my friend. Ask what you wish. We have seen you so often opposite the palace that we decided to attend to your request. Take a seat and do not be timid."
The monarch pointed to a tabouret, but the peasant did not heed the invitation. Glancing around the apartment, he suddenly noticed the voluptuous Pompeian lamp and then turned indignantly, almost threateningly, upon the king who, somewhat disconcerted—though he scarcely knew why—repeated:
"Ask what you wish."
"I ask for nothing," said the old man with emphasis. "I come not to implore from the king either honors or riches. I am sent by God to speak to your Royal Highness certain truths, to remind you of the past and to reveal to you the future. I come not of myself. I am the obscurest laborer in France, by name Martin. I live in a village of but twelve cottages. I am a Christian. I believe in our holy religion and our holy monarchy. When evil men rebelled against God and His earthly agent, my sword remained sheathed because to shed blood is forbidden. But I placed on my breast this Heart, that men might know that with my life I would maintain my faith."
"Good man, be seated," insisted the monarch.
"I have too great a reverence for your person to remain otherwise than standing. I should be kneeling, for so should I choose to honor the uncle and heir of my king."
"What do you mean? Am I not the king, himself?" And Louis XVIII smiled indulgently.
"Your Royal Highness well knows that I am of no importance," Martin calmly replied. "My custom has been to hold my tongue, work my team and pay my rent. My life has been passed in hard and constant labor, and I have wronged no man. My arms are still strong and my head steady, so I plow my own fields. But a month since I stopped working and left home and family to expose myself to the raillery of the foolish and the contempt of the powerful. The people jest at me in the streets and your Royal Highness probably considers me demented."
"My good fellow," said the king, "we always overlook much in the aged—"
"Your Royal Highness, if I offend, it is because I know not the usages of courts. Consign me to punishment if I deserve it, but let me first deliver my message."
"Say what you will, Martin. We listen."
"'Tis not Martin who speaks. Of himself, Martin would not dare. My words are from heaven."
"From heaven!" mockingly echoed, in refined irony, the admirer of Voltaire. "Perchance from God himself."
"Praised ever be his name!" reverently exclaimed the peasant, upon whom the sarcasm was lost. "Let me now begin. Be it known to your Royal Highness that on the sixteenth of January while ploughing in my field, I noted that the oxen were seized with fright. I marveled and asked myself the reason of it. Turning, I beheld at my side a beautiful boy in court-dress, with long curls falling upon his shoulders. A chill seized me while I was wondering how he came there. The boy laid his hand upon me, saying: 'Martin, go to him who sits upon the throne' and, without further words, he vanished. All this occurred so rapidly that I regarded the apparition as due to my advanced age. 'Bah!' said I to myself, ''tis because of the fog. One sees all sorts of strange things in a fog.' Two days later, in the twilight, while returning home, I saw the boy again at the cross-roads. He said: 'Martin, go to him' and again he vanished. I then fell kneeling. On the following day I saw him amid the willows, near the edge of the river. Finally, on the twenty-first of January I saw him on the border of the woods, leaning upon the trunk of an oak which we call the witch's tree. He said many things that I could not understand, some of which I have forgotten. Others are in my mind now but just as though they were shut in a box. When I open the lid and speak them, they will fly away like released birds and I shall no longer remember them. But until I speak them, they are in here as though red branded," and he motioned toward his forehead.
The dateJanuary twenty-firstmade the monarch shudder.
"Describe the boy's appearance and do not be afraid to tell me all."
"I do not fear," declared the peasant. "What could be done to me? Might my life be taken? I am over eighty-five, a dry trunk awaiting the ax. An open grave already yawns for me. The apparition, your Royal Highness, was a beautiful creature and, excepting the dress, like the figure of the archangel Raphael in the parish church. For this reason and in order to set my conscience at rest, I consulted our priest, but he, not daring to give advice, sent me to the bishop, by whom I was told that I related only delusions. I then resolved to keep silent, but the spectre came again, pale, terrible, saying, 'Martin! Martin!' 'Twas night and I in my cot, but, in spite of the late hour, I seized my pouch and staff and, begging my bread along the roadside, journeyed to Paris."
"Go on, go on—The king awaits Martin's revelations."
"Martin's revelations? Here is one, your Royal Highness:The throne is usurped."
"I do not follow your line of reason. Do you mean that there are two kings?" inquired the Bourbon, laughing and remembering Lecazes back of the screen. "Did not my brother die and his son also? Am I not, therefore, the heir to the throne?"
"Your Royal Highness, the apparition giving warning that you should say these words to me, bade me reply: 'All the dead are not in their tombs.'"
The effect of these words upon the king was like a blow from an invisible power and he would have started from his chair had his bandaged legs permitted. But disabled as he was, he half raised himself, his hands cleaved the air and his pupils dilated while his face grew crimson.
"Does your Royal Highness require proofs of what I say?" exclaimed the old man, his green eyes darting fire. "Well, then, listen. I will reveal to you a secret thought which you have never imparted to man. Does your Royal Highness remember the morning when you accompanied his late Majesty to the chase and the fearful temptation which assailed you in the woods of Saint Humbert? The king was a dozen steps ahead of you. Your finger was already on the trigger. A branch impeded your arm—"
The alarmed monarch held his throbbing head in his hands while the merciless indictment grew more and more ominous.
"From your earliest years you coveted the throne. The ill-fated king was the obstacle and you sought to remove him. Unremitting were your fratricidal schemes. You scrupled not to encourage the discontented and to instigate the seditious. What obloquy to have made pacts with the violators of the crown and compromises with the destroyers of churches! Providence permitting, the monarchy would perish. Itshallperish! I am chosen to announce its fall. Not through the sword of an enemy but by its own hand shall it come to its end."
The screen seemed to move and a rushing was audible, but the king remained silent, terrified and incapable of speech or motion.
"Your cousin, the Duke of Orleans, interposed between your Royal Highness and your partisans. Another crime,—was it? You continued to plot the destruction of your brother and the dishonor of the queen. Does your Royal Highness remember who wrote those scurrilous verses and the words dropped at the baptism of the king's daughter? What ferocious joy the first Dauphin's death caused you! Who notified the Convention that the royal family might be detained on the frontier—the mission of Valory? To what end was Favras sacrificed? Who burned the documents? Those ashes appeal! Blood, blood has been spilled! but only the first blood. More is to follow!"
As Martin paused, the only sound to be heard in the apartment was the chattering of the king's teeth. The screen creaked repeatedly as though to suggest and to warn, but the king remained speechless and the implacable peasant resumed:
"Your Royal Highness was not brave enough to head the Revolution which you had incited. You fled, notwithstanding your offer to your august brother to share his fate. While abroad, you disregarded his orders and intrigued for the foreign invasion of your country and for the erection of your brother's scaffold. Have you forgotten the king's letter to the Prince of Condé? He disclaimed all responsibility for the invasion. 'Let there be no war!' he entreated 'Behead me rather.' But therewaswar and his head fell besides. Oh the blood!—in pools, in puddles, in the air, on the guillotine! a deluge of blood,—reeking, sickening, revolting! Do you not see it now? Look! It trickles from the ceiling and stains these walls!"
With frenzied indignation the old man continued to gaze at a vision that no other eyes beheld. His arm was thrust forward and his forefinger almost touched the king's forehead.
"The wretched queen, bleeding and headless, speaks through me. Listen to her, shrieking 'Cain, Cain!'"
The screen creaked as though animated by furious protests and the king remonstrated with what strength he could muster, while the affrighted dog barked timidly and hid himself in the bearskin under his master's bandaged feet.
"For a time the crime was sterile and the Corsican star lighted the French sky. During that period the innocent boy lived concealed, unknown. Your Royal Highness was the hope of many who were ignorant of the boy's existence. I placed faith in you. We believed that the feet of the Corsican colossus were of clay and must soon sink into the earth. And they did sink. Your Royal Highness seized the crown. But why do you even today contrive pitfalls for the orphaned heir and place arms in the hands of the iniquitous?"
The king, with folded and almost supplicating hands, seemed like a criminal imploring clemency, while tremors shook his head and convulsive breathing agitated his breast. Martin suddenly changed his attitude of pitiless accuser and dropped on his knees, saying gently:
"The archangel declares that it is not yet too late for repentance, but that the time is brief and fleeting. Oh, your Highness, I adjure you to refrain from being anointed. Let not the oil from the holy vials be poured sacrilegiously upon your head. Dare not desecrate the sacred altars by requiem masses for those who have not yet died! No crime is so great as profanation. The tree is accursed, and it shall be uprooted!"
In a prophetic frenzy, he continued:
"It shall be swept away! It shall perish! Uprooted in Italy, uprooted in Spain, uprooted shall it be in France and everywhere!—The canker spreads, rises from limbs to heart—The corroded flesh—Pray God for mercy!"
The king no longer listened. His head fell upon the back of his chair, his face became purple and foam covered his lips as he lay a victim to syncope, which at times overcame him. Martin turned and addressed the screen.
"Concealed fox, come to your master's aid." And slowly he walked toward the door while the baron, in a panic ran to unfasten the monarch's neckpiece and fan him with a music sheet. Louis XVIII opened his terror-stricken eyes and stammered:
"Let the man go in peace. See that no harm is done him."
In the long colloquy which Amélie and her father held with their unexpected guest, they planned a voyage to France which should be a tentative effort to master the paths and places leading to their proposed goal. As a matter of precaution, they arranged to have no further meetings in London and to join one another in Dover on a day which should be previously designated.
Before leaving, the young Marquis said to his host:
"If you wish to make a generous return for a trifling service—give me this picture."
His eyes were riveted upon a medallion displaying the face of a lady of patrician beauty, which, with other miniatures, was set in a framing of diminutive chrysolites, stones much used during the eighteenth century and which imitate in a marvelous manner the brilliancy of diamonds. The lady's hair rose in curls above a splendid forehead, enclosed her cheeks and fell upon her shoulders. Roses and feathers surmounted the graceful coiffure and white laces opened at the neck to reveal a perfect throat.
"Which of the pictures?"
"Amélie's," said René.
Naundorff gravely removed the image and pressed it reverently to his lips. Then he handed it to de Brezé, saying in a broken voice:
"'Tis not Amélie, but my unhappy, my adored mother."
As René, through delicacy, made a movement of refusal, the mechanic said:
"To only the Marquis de Brezé would I give this medallion. Farewell, loved image, that has so often rested on my heart. I am almost glad to part with you, for who knows how soon my house will for the hundredth time be rifled and I deprived of the last evidences of my personality, my dearest memories, my real life. I am more tranquil when other hands than mine guard my treasures. Watch over them, René, and over all that I have confided to your keeping. This face will bring Amélie to your eyes, for the resemblance is so remarkable, in spite of the difference in dress, that I do not wonder at your mistake."
On reaching the Hotel Douglas, René's first act was to take the miniature from his breast and cover it with kisses. Then, as he gazed upon the face of the dame of 1780, he murmured:
"How, in heaven's name, have I taken this face for Amélie! Why 'tis the wretched queen, Marie Antoinette, whom it resembles amazingly."
He became thoughtful, and then suddenly felt himself growing weak, almost fainting. The loss of blood began to have effect and he hastened to his bed. Even his curiosity ebbed away. He had not the strength to turn the leaves of the manuscript. Instinct moved him to place it and the casket beneath the mattress.
Hardly had he stretched his limbs, when a fever overcame him. A disturbed sleep, in which incoherent and fantastic ideas surged, oppressed his brain. The extraordinary events of the previous night were grotesquely reproduced. Amélie, in her white dress, broke through the garden trellis and threw herself into his arms, imploring him to carry her away from London; the Duchess de Rousillon, erect and haughty, barred the passage to Naundorff's door; Naundorff, himself, lay upon the pavement of the square, gashed and bloody; the streets were red torrents rushing toward the Thames, and he, René, battled for his life in the river of blood.
With parched throat and tongue, he tossed through the night, to welcome, at last, the dawn gleaming through his window curtains. He vainly tried to raise himself and so lay helplessly until the entry of a servant, whom he immediately dispatched for a doctor. The doctor prescribed quiet and rest, forbidding his patient to leave his bed during four days. On the fifth, with clearer head and diminished thirst, René closed his eyes in a sweet sleep.
During the morning a travelling coach drew up before the Hotel upon whose front seat valises and handsome wallets bore a count's heraldric blazonry. A valet de chambre, thickset and awkward, preceded an elegant gentleman whose dress harmonized with the sumptuous equipage. His cloak and gray felt hat eminently merited the adjectivefashionablewhich was an English term then beginning to be applied in France to whatever was distinguished by good taste.
"Attend the gentleman! Bring in his baggage!" called out the host, whose patrons consisted usually of impecunious Scotch lairds and shabby Glasgow tradesmen, and rarely numbered such distinguished guests as the invalid French marquis and this newly arrived nobleman so showy and immaculate, bearing no marks of his recent journey. The irreproachable traveler ordered a suite. The valet superintended the conveying of the baggage, his purple face and red whiskers gleaming above the folds of an ample cravat. As soon as the master and servant were alone in the count's sleeping chamber, they drew close together and the valet whispered:
"We have caught the bird in his cage. What are we to do now?"
"Find out all that has happened to the precious Marquis. Show some brains in this business since you played the fool in the square." And, as he concluded this speech, Volpetti removed his hat, arranged his Chateaubriand tuft of hair, viewed himself in the mirror and extracted from his pockets a variety of toilet appurtenances,—files, pincers, scissors, etc., which doubtless pertained to the collection which Alberto Serra was to pass through Gibraltar.
The valet was absent about twenty minutes, during which he introduced himself in the kitchen by the name of Brosseur and began a chat with the cook. He was holding in one hand a steaming jug when his master called out in an infuriated tone:
"Well, rascal, how long am I to wait? Do you want your head broken?"
Brosseur hurried to Volpetti's chamber, locked the door, set down the jug and gleefully rubbed his hands together, saying:
"Wonderful news! Just what I expected! I did not play such a great fool after all. The Marquis has been ill in bed four days from his wounds and has seen only his physician."
"Are you telling the truth?"
"The gospel truth."
"Have letters come to him?"
"Not one. I played the greenhorn, asking questions. I stumbled on a steward whose tongue is a jewel."
"Is the wound serious?"
"I believe not. It has produced a fever. The knife missed the lung by half a centimeter,—cursed be the devil! Why, we saw him leave Naundorff's house afoot and take a cab for Wellington street."
"Very well! Now, repeat to me in detail all that occurred after the Marquis left the house."
"After remaining within a long time, he came forth, lighted to the door by a woman. Then he started off alone and, on reaching the centre of the square, picked up the knife which we had there forgotten. In doing so, he dropped an object which he carried beneath his arm. This he quickly recovered. It looked rectangular in shape and had a metallic sound on striking the trunk of the tree."
"Did he have the box during the scuffle in the square?"
"I swear he did not, for his movements were most free. No; he received that box in Naundorff's house."
On hearing these words, Volpetti could not restrain an exclamation of joy, and passing his patrician hand over his Chateaubriand tuft, he said, motioning toward the baggage and the bath:
"Make arrangements for the changing of my clothes. I wish an embroidered shirt, silk stockings, violet coat and grey breeches. And, using the greatest caution, find out the number of the Marquis's chamber and sketch me a plan of the hotel. Remember well the entrances and exits. Secure for yourself, if possible, a room next that of the Marquis, and 'twould be most fortunate that it have a fireplace. Well, later, I shall give you further instructions. Be diligent and discreet."
The valet, with malignant flashing eyes, hastened away to carry out these instructions.
René, on feeling stronger, resolved to read the manuscript which awakened his interest more and more deeply. The enigma of Naundorff's obscure life, the cause of the attack in the square, Amélie's startling resemblance to the medallion—all would be explained by that roll of paper in the cylindrical case.
He rose and breakfasted on tea and toast, after which, fortified and resolute, he examined his pistols and placed them within reach. Then he stretched himself upon a lounge near the table and broke the seal, which represented a tuberose and sarcophagus,—a symbolic emblem causing him to start. His eyes next fell upon the dedicatory words at the head of the manuscript: TO HER.
"Is this a love history?" he asked himself, recalling Naundorff's beautiful countenance and indefinable charm. With feverish anxiety, he turned the leaf and read:
"This is the recital of my misfortunes which you alone can assuage. Remember that you must at last stand before God."
Then the text continued:
Since my tireless enemies and malevolent fate are combined for the purpose of forcing me to die beneath a spurious name and destitute of the rights to which my birth entitles me; since you, yourself (in whom I had faith because it seemed monstrous to doubt you), have discredited my claim: I hold up to you a mirror reflecting the insistent memories of which you are so great a part, that your remorse may hereafter be the greater, if this appeal I make softens not your heart and if the impositions of royalty outweigh the supplications of blood.
A day shall come, Thérèse, when posterity, marveling at my abandoned condition, will indignantly ask why the powers of Europe made no protest at the iniquity practised upon me. But that posterity should consider the fate of our parents,—yours and mine, Thérèse,—the fate of the ignominious journey to the guillotine as well as the indifference before that spectacle of those who should have burned their last cartridge in defence of the victims! Ah, Thérèse! In vain do you seek to restore THE PRINCIPLE,—to use the expression you of the Court employ—in vain do you seek to restore THE PRINCIPLE which is the basis of our national glory. Our country's weakness at the present time consists in the repudiation of that PRINCIPLE.
Perhaps I seem a dreamer or a lunatic, but, nevertheless, 'tis by the light of my unparalleled misfortunes that I perceive the impending cataclysm. The PRINCIPLE has suicided and the INSTITUTION has received its death blow. What life remains to it will be puerile and despicable. Trampled by its enemies, humiliated, scourged, manacled, crowned in mockery, buffeted, its purple mantle in shreds, it shall at last be crucified, not to await a glorious resurrection but to crumble to dust in a fleur de lis cemetery.
Fools are those who build above a raging torrent. Lay not the flattering unction to your soul, Thérèse, that you have saved the dynasty by sacrificing your brother. God is no Moloch to be propitiated by such holocausts. Sterile has been your womb as a warning to you, and other lessons, tremendous and desolating, have you yet to learn. As for me, my descendants will toil and sweat over labors as arduous as my own, and so shall the ages expiate.
How dreadful is my fate, Thérèse! I live, I breathe, butI, asI, do not exist; thatIhas been buried in an empty coffin, in the angle of two walls of a cemetery. At times I doubt my very senses and all that I am about to relate to you seems the very fabric of a dream,—but then no dream has ever been so long and fearful. 'Tis only my anguish that convinces me of reality. I co-ordinate my memories and perceive that I amnota deluded fool. Once I described my misgivings to a physician in Germany, saying that in believing myself to be another I feared at times that I was demented. He said he had known similar cases and advised me to summon all my mental strength and hold a powerful light to the mirror of my consciousness.
"Impostors have there been who were not liars," said the doctor fixing upon me a penetrating look. "Those impostors have believed their asseverations." Thérèse, I appeal to you to rescue me from this appalling phenomenon.
And as I am opening my heart to you,—the heart which throbs, not the inert heart which was offered you with the assurance that it had been taken from my dead body and which you refused to accept,—since I conceal nothing from you, Thérèse, O listen! I implore you to convince me that I am a wretched dupe of the Revolution, for perhaps 'twould be best that I should be persuaded that my reason is diseased. Be pitiful, Thérèse, even tho you refuse me love.
And now, whether I rave or speak truth, I summon my life's memories even from infancy. I stand in that incomparable summer palace in which we lived before the bursting forth of the Revolution. I walk through the magnificent salons adorned by rare artists, and amid those marvelous gardens wherein the skill of Le Nôtre surpassed itself. But more vivid still than the memories of these splendors is the image of the charming villa of diminutive blue lakes and rustic kiosks and the verdant farm where our mother in simple muslin (how beautiful she was, Thérèse!) delighted to drink fresh milk, gather wild flowers and scatter grain to the birds. How gay we were, you and I, participating in these innocent amusements, in our straw hats and cool white dresses. One day an artist painted us so, and, as I grew restive and troublesome during the sitting, my mother said gently, "Charles Louis, I shall soon know whether or not you love me." This sweet remonstrance quieted me. I so loved my mother that the sound of her voice in singing always brought tears to my eyes.
But the roaring tempest broke,—the Revolution. Our father did not realize the peril; hecouldnot believe that he was hated; he expected daily a reconciliation with his people. But our mother's virile spirit perceived from the first that not only the throne but the royal heads as well were in danger. I was too young to understand causes but I realized that the atmosphere was transformed into something strained and dolorous. Accustomed as I was to all manner of attentions, to hear laughing applause after my youthful sallies, to behold only approving and smiling countenances, I suddenly realized that no one had the time or the inclination to caress me and that grave anxiety seemed the reason for my neglect. Rumors of contentions, abrupt alarms, hurried changing of apartments, enforced awakenings in the early morning, terrorized prayers dictated by our good aunt, our father's sister, who, joining our hands, would bid us kneel and beg God for mercy—all this filled even my child-mind with the consciousness of impending danger. One night a furious multitude surrounded the palace. Some one snatched me from bed and carried me away to concealment, and my mother,ourmother, stripped herself of a lace gown and flung it around me, that I should be somewhat protected. You were near, Thérèse, sobbing affrightedly and waiting to be carried away to a place of security.
Do you remember the morning on which the inebriated multitude forced us to return to Paris? Our carriage was advancing slowly; the heat and dust almost asphyxiated us; our throats were parched with thirst, but none of us dared ask for a drop of water. Brawny fellows rode ahead of us, howling and brandishing pikes surmounted by bleeding human heads. One of these men, whose wide-open mouth in the midst of a long matted beard resembled a cavern, came to the window. Terror-stricken, I buried my face in our mother's bosom and so remained during the entire journey.
After this journey,—how long after, I know not—we made that other journey, ill-timed and inauspicious, which sealed our fate. And now appeared my uncle's form, our father's brother, whom, of late, we had scarcely seen, for since our misfortunes he had frequented the camps of the disaffected and abetted our parents' calumniators. But on this occasion he seemed solicitous for our deliverance and co-operated in our arrangements for escape. Against our mother's judgment, had our father confided the project to his brother, who advised that the iniquitous Valory, a creature possessed body and soul by the Count of Provence, should be entrusted with the details of the flight.
A program was mapped out whose happy exit seemed assured. To what purpose all the minute precautions? Why was I disguised as a girl and told I should say my name was 'Amélie,' were I asked: Amélie, a name to me eternal and which I have given to the daughter of my soul. Reflect, Thérèse, upon that sinister journey, and decide who profited thereby. There is a sentence in Hamlet running thus: The serpent that did sting my father's life now wears his crown.
I shall always believe that our mother suspected the hand that detained us. Valory, who preceded us, was but the agent of those who with the kiss of betrayal delivered us shackled. The ambush was prepared with infernal adroitness. The detention occurred when we had almost reached the frontier that greater obloquy might be heaped upon the royal family than if it had been surprised near Paris.
Valory rode mounted ahead of our carriage and took so little pains to dissemble as to disappear near the last change of horses, causing our mother mortal terror. She made her suspicions known to our father, who, displeased and pained, rejected them. Our father's faith in his brother was implicit. Our mother never succeeded in combating it, not even after the farce accomplished by the notorious Drouet, who today enjoys the favor and protection of the usurper.
You, Thérèse, have accepted his protection, also. 'Tis we who make history and not revolutions caused by currents of ideas. Believe, rather, in human passions, in the ambitions of the mighty which carry in their train the faith of a confiding and bewildered multitude. And believe, also, in a Nemesis of expiation, though 'tis at times the innocent who wash away the stains of the guilty.
You remember the termination of that flight. On our return I was exceedingly fatigued and ill at ease. My girl's dress added to my discomfort and I was at last relieved of it by our faithful valet, who put me to bed, on this first night in Paris after our capture.
Several officers of the National Guard remained near my bed and affectionately bade me sleep tranquilly. While I dozed, they smoked and chatted and their voices soothed me; even the clanking of their spurs was pleasant reassurance. I sank into a lethargy, of what length I know not. Suddenly my eyes seemed opening on a startling spectacle. The Guard surrounded me. They laughed and spoke words which I could not understand. By degrees their human outlines became blurred and they were covered with hair. Their hands grew into long grey paws terminating in sharp nails, their faces projected into snouts, their eyes glowed as live coals and their voices howled fearfully. Wolves! wolves! famishing, frantic wolves. Their hot breathing was stifling as they leaned to devour me—
I must have screamed, for I waked in my mother's arms, as she snatched me from bed, covering my face with kisses. Those kisses are still on my face, Thérèse, and I feel now the passionate embrace with which she clasped me to her, and I see the terrible dread on her beautiful pale face.
Thérèse, do you remember how we were taken to the Assembly, there to pass the day within a grated tribunal and led thence to prison? How from that prison we were afterwards transferred to another more gloomy still? O the tower, the tower! The impressions of sorrow are deeper than those of happiness. Tell me, Thérèse, my companion in that captivity, has greater suffering ever been endured than in that tower? If those walls, so soon after demolished, (for all traces of my history have been obliterated), if those stones that once were walls had a voice, that voice would be a sob. If they might writhe, they would wring out tears. Even their name is a wail. There is no elegy so sad as the towers.
The agonies of our family,—you know them as well as I, for they are your own. But what you donotknow are mine,—a child torn from his mother's arms as she was led to the guillotine. And though you seek to drive them from your knowledge, youshallhear them.
Let me describe this prison to you, that you may realize 'tis your brother who speaks. What detail could I forget of that damp tower flanked by four smaller ones of arched roofs? The roof of the first was sustained in the centre by a heavy pillar and its doors were of strong boards fastened together by nails and guarded by heavy bolts; the interior door was of cast iron; the walls were grey and black, in imitation of a tomb; the white border was garnished with the tricolor on which were traced the words: RIGHTS OF MAN. This was the only decoration of the filthy apartment wherein vulgar and malevolent people constantly watched us.
On first entering the tower, I believed myself to be dreaming and that soon I should be rescued from the nightmare, as my mother had snatched me from the wolves. This conviction was doubtless due to the contrast between my past and present condition. My childhood had glided by so sweetly and placidly; my senses had been stimulated by such great beauty and elegance; the epoch upon which my mother stamped her refinement was so poetic and artistic; the gardens in which I had played were so beautiful; my material wants anticipated with so much adulation, that I had grown to comprehend only smiles and beauty. It was considered an honor to touch me, to be near me. No wonder, then, that the transition from palace to prison affected my nervous system to the extent of causing the obsession to possess me that I was two persons in one.
I might describe our incarceration to the minutest particular; I might tell you the exact position of your bed and mine and the armchair of white-painted wood in which our father dozed before dinner. Only listen to me, Thérèse, and you will open your arms.
You will remember that I was taken away from our father and mother after their condemnation to death, and delivered to two creatures who scarcely seemed to pertain to the human species,—a pair of brutes who had doubtless received instructions to render me idiotic through vile treatment. But I must tell the truth. My guardians were indeed cruel, but not to the extent which is usually believed. The inhumanity of that cobbler and his wife has been greatly exaggerated, possibly with the object of establishing my supposed death. Were the account true which has obtained currency, I should not have survived. No child could have withstood an unremitting martyrdom of hunger, blows, nakedness, and deprivation of sleep. These hardships, indeed, I endured, but with intervals of respite. Husband and wife were not equally brutal; he was crafty and cruel, she gross and stupid, but possessing a heart of some tenderness. Unhappy woman! I caused her ruin among that of many others. For maintaining that I was not dead, she was declared insane and placed in confinement. In her clumsy manner, she had protected me and often smuggled into my couch candy and cheap toys.
On being taken from the custody of this couple, I was placed in the cell in which our father's valet had been imprisoned. Here my condition was worse than ever before. The windows, always closed, shut out light and air. The doors opened only to those who, in silence, brought me food. The furniture consisted of a table, a jug of water and the bed,—shelf, rather,—on which I slept. Noxious odors slowly poisoned my blood.
While I here languished, the Revolution continued to rage fiercely, though the period of delirium had passed and a species of authority obtained. You and I, the hapless remnants of an ill-starred dynasty, seemed relegated to oblivion, but there were some who thought of us with pity. The friends who had futilely sought to save our parents' lives formed plans for rescuing me. She who was my most zealous champion and spent much money in my behalf was the charming creole, native of the island of Martinique, and wife of a Revolutionary general. Of this lady a negress in her native land had predicted that she should be Empress and experience glory and sorrow without limit. She was at heart a legitimist. Anarchy prevailed in all departments of governments, skeptics had succeeded fanatics and the public voice denounced the Directory. The first indication which reached me of the termination of this era of tigers and hyenas was the receiving of clean clothes, the entry of fresh air through the windows which were opened at last, and the replacing of my daily mess of lentils by decent food.
My friends did not find it a simple task to accomplish my rescue. A new wave of public ferocity seemed imminent. To bribe my custodians, themselves under unceasing surveillance, was most difficult. The Municipal Council had agents stationed at the entrance and exit of the tower. Had it been a question of heroic sacrifice only, there would have lacked not noble partisans of our House to dash themselves against even invincible obstacles.
Would that I had died within those walls, permeated with the atmosphere of our immolated mother. I should have perished, as you have expressed my supposed fate, 'like a blighted flower.' For my greater sorrow, generous abnegation and political malevolence combined to remove me from this living tomb. The account of my flight is an incoherent one. I myself can scarcely co-ordinate its episodes, for I was too feeble to comprehend them clearly. My true history will never be historically known, for an oligarchy, such as once existed in Venice, suppressed what suited its purpose. No corroborating documents exist to verify even my fragmentary recital.
The Revolution smouldered and the fall of the government was predicted. Astute ambitions of various kinds combined to effect my freedom. Unbridled lust for power grew rank. Our uncle, your present protector, Thérèse, rallied around him, by employing my name as a summons, the elements of the Restoration, meanwhile secretly paralyzing the efforts directed toward my liberation. This he accomplished by procrastination and discouragement. He was trusting to my prison life to attain the desired consummation. But notwithstanding his efforts to double-bar my cell, and even tho he would have thrown the weight of his body against the door to insure its security, he was thwarted by a man who had temporarily seized the reins of authority,—a voluptuary, destitute of genuine energy—who realized that the possession of my person would constitute an imposing arm. He planned to place me in concealment from which to produce me when it should suit him to declare me among the living. By this subtlety he might dominate even our uncle with whom he maintained (as did other revolutionists who were deemed incorruptible) a secret intercourse, avowedly with the end of establishing a moderate Restoration,—which should concede what had been already acquired by the Revolution. I, kept in hiding, would be a double-edged sword, a menace to the arrogance of my uncle in his claim to the regency and a guarantee to the loyal troops who were giving battle in the far East. Behold the stratagem forced by the ingenious and base-born Barras. As instruments, he selected the charming creole (wife of the adventurer who later subjugated Europe) and two military men attached to the royal cause.
Thus it happened that men, who in the midst of anarchy and administrative chaos, held the reins of power, wove, by their audacity and wit, the complicated plot of my rescue and made current the report of my death. Tho it was impossible to remove me bodily from my cell, a simple matter it proved to thrust me into the loft above my bed. A boy who had been smuggled in a basket of clean clothes replaced me. This substitute was a deaf-mute and so the imitation was perfect, for I had during my imprisonment maintained a constant silence.
I do not remember how the transition was effected. I had been given a dose of drugged sweetened water. During my stupor I was placed in the loft. As I awoke, the voices of my two deliverers implored me to remain perfectly still. Shivering with cold and almost fainting from hunger, never did I attempt approaching the door. Food was brought me with the greatest irregularity, which I would devour and then huddle into a corner. While I lay in this stifling hole, the rumor of my escape was disseminated; spies were set on the frontier to watch for me by governmental officers not in the plot.
Meanwhile, Barras gleefully rubbed his hands and in order to further mystify the public he doubled the guard about my prison, while I groveled, shuddering, in my filthy covert.
Barras realized that my mock death and burial would alone complete the strategy; he visited the cell and gave instructions for the replacing of the deaf-mute by a dying boy to be procured at a hospital. This hapless child succumbed in my name and poets sang dirges over him, queens and princesses robed themselves in crepe, priests held aloft thousands of times the sacred host in sacrifice. That boy dead in rags and squalor, Thérèse, is often in my mind as I reflect on the vanity of royalty.
Physicians who had never beheld me testified to the Dauphin's demise, after witnessing the death of my substitute,—the death which was the signal for my release. When the autopsy was completed, a surgeon extracted the boy's heart and sent it to you, the Dauphin's sister, Thérèse. You rejected that heart. Why?
And now I listen to the culminating horror! The body of that boy was taken from the coffin at night and buried in the tower's garden, whence, years later, the skeleton was exhumed, and that coffin was the sinister vehicle which bore me from my prison. In that coffin I was taken along the road leading to the cemetery. During the journey I was removed and weights placed within. And these weights were found to be the contents when subsequently an attempt was made to recover my body. The coffin was buried with suspicious dispatch after the manner of deeds which fear the light. The public voice clamored that an imposture had been practised, whereupon the Government speedily dispatched a commission which disinterred the coffin, fastened the lid on more securely and placed it in another cemetery. This incident is so well known that I shall call it history.